My instinct says no. Every tactical protocol screams against leaving her vulnerable. But Marisol nods, something desperate in her eyes.
"Five minutes," she agrees.
I relocate to the bar, close enough to maintain visual contact but far enough that their words become murmurs. The bartender tries to make conversation, something about the weather, the usual Miami brightness. I ignore him, focus locked on the siblings.
Gabriel reaches across the table, takes her hand between both of his. She flinches but doesn't pull away. He's speaking low, urgent, leaning forward with intensity that cracks his priestly composure. She shakes her head. Once, twice, more emphatic with each denial.
Her eyes fill with tears she refuses to let fall. His jaw works like he's fighting words that want to escape. For a moment, just a breath, I see who they used to be. The golden son and the wild daughter, before death and secrets tore them apart.
Then she pulls away. Not just her hand but her whole body, creating distance that might as well be an ocean. The wall goes back up, reinforced with eight years of practice.
When I return, the conversation is already over. Whatever Gabriel was trying to say, she's shut it down completely. He stands with the careful movements of someone afraid to break something.
"I'm staying in Miami," he says. "At St.Augustine's. If you need me."
"I've needed you for eight years. You weren't there."
The words land like bullets. Gabriel absorbs them, nods with something that might be acceptance or might be resignation.
"I know. I'm here now."
"Are you? Or are you just visiting until things get hard again?"
He doesn't answer, which tells us both everything. At the door, he turns back, meets my eyes over Marisol's head. The look is complex. Warning, question, recognition. Whatever heknows about Cesar, whatever he's not saying, he's trusting me to protect her from it.
The priest walks away, but I recognize the predator's gait underneath the holy man's shuffle. Whatever Gabriel Delgado did before finding God, it required the same skills I use. The same capacity for violence.
Then he's gone, leaving three more women watching his exit while Marisol stands frozen, eight years too late for any of this to matter.
Back in the car, her hand finds mine across the console. The touch is innocent, but my body's reaction isn't. Even after everything we've shared, her skin against mine sends heat straight through me. I should pull away. Instead, I interlace our fingers, feeling her pulse race against my palm.
She doesn't speak for the first ten minutes of the drive back. I count them. Six hundred seconds of silence while her breathing gradually slows from combat-ready to exhausted. Minute seven: a sharp inhale like she's about to speak. Minute eight: her hand unclenches in mine. Minute ten: she breaks.
"He looked good," she finally says. "For someone who abandoned his family."
"He looked like someone carrying weight."
"We all carry weight. He doesn't get special credit."
"I'm not giving him credit."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Observing." I take the turn toward her building. "He reacted when you mentioned Cesar. His hands gave him away."
She turns to look at me fully. "Gabriel doesn't do violence. That's why he ran to the church."
I say nothing, but I'm thinking about those white knuckles, that flash of something dangerous quickly suppressed. Everyone does violence. Some people just dress it in different clothes.
My phone buzzes. Message from Logan. The text is coded but clear. Cesar's moving money through shell companies. The kind of financial gymnastics that happen before someone makes a power play. Or orders a hit. Could be standard operating procedure for him. Could be something different.
Back at the penthouse, she walks straight to the bathroom, the lock clicking with finality. The shower starts immediately. I wait in the living room, checking my phone again. This time it's not Gunner. It's an unknown number. The message is just a photo: Marisol entering the hotel today, taken from across the street. Someone's watching. Someone wants me to know they're watching.
Twenty minutes pass before she emerges, eyes red-rimmed but face carefully composed.
"He said he stayed away to protect me." Her voice is flat, emotionless. "That seeing him would just remind me of that night. That he thought I could move on if he wasn't there to be a constant reminder."
"Do you believe him?"
